Alone Is All That I Have
by Ezra Scarlet
Summary: "Don't become involved, Sherlock." Why hadn't he listened to Mycroft? Why did he never listen? Set during "The Sign Of Three," "His Last Vow," and continues after. Not Johnlock. No pairings in sight, other than canon.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N I know, I'm horrible for not updating "My Screaming Laughter," but Sherlock has slowly consumed my life, and after the most recent episode just came out, and needed to let out my feelings about it. I loved the episode, it is by far one of my favorite. But it also made me want to bawl. The hurt that Sherlock portrayed in this episode, I just...Anyways, here's something I came up with to help me with my wayward emotions.

0o0

Sherlock eyed them all, looking down on them with a kind of desperate need. When he caught sight of Janine, he thought maybe, just maybe this night wouldn't go to waste. He could feel the smile making it's way onto his face when he spotted her.

But then she indicated to the man dancing with her, he stuttered to a halt, and then took a step back.

_Don't become involved, Sherlock._

Why hadn't he listened to Mycroft? Why did he never listen!?

He heard them all laughing, dancing, shouting out to friends and family. From the corner of his eye he made out John and Mary still dancing together, them looking to each others eyes with such love and need. And then occasionally John's hand would go to gently caress her stomach. When Sherlock had revealed the pregnancy to them, he hadn't expected to unintentionally exclude himself from their lives. But he had.

_You won't need me anymore, with a real kid along the way._

_You won't need me anymore._

_You won't need me anymore._

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the sight. He searched desperately for anyone that might take him, help him fight off this impending loneliness. But they all had someone. Lestrade was with his wife, who had finally stopped sleeping around. Molly was with her fiance, dancing together with him, them both laughing. Mrs Hudson had sat in a chair, chatting up some old fellow who seemed quite interested her, and it was clear she returned that interest. And all of a sudden, Sherlock felt as if the roof was closing down on him.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the ground as he made his way to the stage. He placed the music sheet which he had composed especially for Mary and John in an envelope, and left it there for them to find.

From there, Sherlock made his way to the back rooms, got dressed, and then left. No one noticed as the lone consulting detective stalked out into the night, a shadow seeming to be hanging down upon him.

In hindsight, he mused, it really was his fault. He shouldn't have let them get so close. He shouldn't have become so emotionally invested in people. He shouldn't have let himself become attached.

If he hadn't of, he wouldn't currently be standing in his small apartment, watching the flames from his fire slowly flicker and die. He wouldn't be filled with such sadness and loss. He wouldn't be _feeling _anything.

_Stupid, stupid Sherlock. I've told you time and time again. Emotions are not an advantage. I thought you learnt that from your little endevour with "The Women."_

Sherlock didn't even try to silence Mycroft's voice. He just let it wash through him, take over his entire being, and drag him down further.

And then it was with startling clarity that Sherlock realized he didn't have to feel like this. He didn't need people. He didn't need emotions. All he needed was his brain and his addictions.

_Mycroft's was right, _he thought briskly. _I shouldv'e listened for once. If I had of, If I hadn't of tried so hard to be accepted by their pathetic society, I wouldn't be feeling the way I am now. I shouldn't have tried at all. I should have stayed aloof and distant._

_After all, _he continued, his mouth pulling into a grim line, _Alone is what I have. Alone is what protects me._

0o0

A/N I may or may not continue this fic. Who knows? I really just wanted to get rid of all my feels. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review!


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Slanted text means it is either a memory/flashback, inner thought, or there is emphasis on that word. Also, this chapter is set after "His Last Vow." Major spoilers. If you haven't watched the episode already, than I suggest you turn back. Without having watched the episode you would be thoroughly confused as to what is going on here. Also, and I feel I should emphasize this, THIS IS NOT JOHNLOCK! Purely bromance. If you want to make it out to be Johnlock, than that is your choice, but I did not write this fanfic with that intention in mind.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

0o0

_You don't like yourself. But you do admire yourself. It's all you've got so you cling to it. You're so afraid if you change, you'll lose what makes you special._

_ -Doctor James Wilson-_

0o0

"It's for a case!"

Oh, but what a lie to tell. Honestly, Sherlock didn't know why he was doing this. Was it because he had broken his beaker the other night? Maybe it was because Mrs Hudson forgot to add biscuits to his morning tea? What could have driven him too such a point that he felt the need to fall back into such unsavory habits? Could it be...

_No, Sherlock. Not there. Never there. _Mycrofts voice rung out through his head, demanding to be heard.

_Ah, Mycroft, _Sherlock thought scathingly, his mouth pulling into thin line, _Always the voice of reason. Even now, after so many years._

So then, it would seem that "Mycroft" was suppressing the real reason he was here. Well, that was all fine with him then. If "Mycroft," his voice of reason, found it unnecessary to remember, than who was he to argue? It was only "real life Mycroft" that he felt a need to argue with. The reason was probably something sentimental anyways. It would just get in the way of what needed to be done.

_But what was it that needed to be done again? I can't remember. Why can't I remember? Something about a case. Suitcase? A pink one? No, no, no, no, wrong, not that kind of case. A client, maybe? Yes, a client. A client with a case for me. And I had a plan. A plan too...Ah._

Honestly, he really shouldn't have been all that surprised when John didn't accept his half baked explanation. In reality, he had simply been looking for any kind of excuse to resign himself to the inky darkness bought on by narcotics. John, Mary, and Molly only believed him after some rather strange behavior perfectly calculated to make them doubt their preconceptions. Surprisingly, Mycroft was the easiest too convince. One mention of Magnussen had him dropping his smug expression and forgetting about his substance abuse.

"It's for a case!"

Why was everyone so ready to believe that? Was the truth really so horrible? Was denial simply easier to accept?

_Yes. And you know why they'd prefer to believe that, don't you?_

Sherlock shook his head, trying to free himself of these grim thoughts. But in truth, he already knew the answer.

Because if you believed it, then you didn't have to entertain those other little, nagging thoughts. Things like;

Maybe the man you thought of as a son, while liking being alone, didn't fancy being lonely.

Maybe that tall intimidating figure couldn't, in fact, solve everything.

Maybe the heart that you thought was incapable of loving you, was just incapable of loving themselves.

Maybe the little brother, so small and sad, wasn't quite so oblivious to hardship as you thought them to be.

Maybe the best friend you left behind wasn't actually okay with it as they pretended to be.

And maybe, as sad, sorrowful maybe, his friends would rather sink into the sweet bliss of denial than acknowledge one fact.

Sherlock wasn't Sherlock. He was a little boy frightened to feel. Frightened to love. Frightened to live.

0o0

"Charles. Augustus. Magnussen."

At that time, and even now, Sherlock suspected that John could hear the obvious hate and disgust in his voice. But Sherlock knew that John never actually grasped just _why _Sherlock hated him. If Sherlock were to dwell on it, he would feel faintly hurt that John had not cared enough to ask.

But these days, he gave himself very little time to think.

Mary stood still and staunch in front of him. A gun raised, an apologetic look. But all of this didn't stop the bullet from being fired.

_"You need to focus!" _

_"Decide which way to fall."_

_"Don't go into shock."_

Don't this, do that, be this. Did he have too? Did he really have to _do _anything? Wasn't it easier to just lie here, and let darkness take him? Hadn't he fought enough? Hadn't he suffered, alone, sad, and tired, for long enough?

_"John Watson is definitely in danger." _

A gasp of air, the struggle to return. Up the stairs, don't give up. Forward, forward, forward!

Return to consciousness was a slow thing. Even the shadowy form of Mary and her low, threatening voice wasn't enough to bring him back.

John never questioned why he seemed to hate Magnussen so much.

"_Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets."_

He had given Mycroft some semblance of the truth. But then again, he always lied to Mycroft, half truths or not. Mycroft had gotten close, very close, to the answer. Yes, Sherlock did feel this way, but it wasn't the only reason. In his vulnerable position now though, if Mycroft were to ask him, Sherlock would answer differently.

_Because he threatened to expose what I pretended for so long, and only recently come too acknowledge, not too have. _

_A heart._

0o0

"Get away from me, John!"

_I'm dangerous John. Those that stay with me know only heartache and pain. Stay away from me John. You'll only cut yourself on my broken pieces. _

Flashing sirens,and the beat of wings from an airborne helicopter. Mycroft's voice rang loud and clear over a speaker.

"Do not fire! Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes!"

_But hadn't they already? Hadn't every single bullet already torn through his already fragile heart? _

If anyone were asked to describe Sherlock Holmes, they might say the following.

_ He's cold, he's callous, he disregarded all emotions because he felt them a hindrance to his mind. He's a man that very few can get along with._

But Mycroft would say differently. Mycroft always knew. Mycroft always saw what Sherlock tried so desperately to hide.

_My brother is a man who feels too much. He desperately wishes to be a sociopath, but I know it is not true. His feelings ravage and torment him, ripping him apart from the inside out. So, one day, he decided not to feel anything at all. My brother is one of the most human people you will ever meet. Isn't it ironic that that very same humanity is what led him too this place?_

And now, here he stood, off too his very likely death. John didn't know. Mary didn't know. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. They didn't know. And for their sakes, Sherlock was willing to keep them in the dark. Keep them thinking that he was abandoning them again. Let them thinking him selfish. Let them hate him. Let them curse the day they met him.

Receiving a phone call from Mycroft not four minutes after his departure had not been apart of his plan. Moriarty being still alive was not apart of his plan. Returning was not apart of his plan. And yet, not even four minutes later, that's what he found himself doing. So he left the plane, clapped John on the shoulder, and entered the limousine waiting for him.

Because it was all an act. Just an act.

0o0

Sorry if the way things kept jumping around confuses some of you. In my Sherlock addled brain, it all makes sense, but I have been told that I'm slightly crazy, so whatever. Now that we've got all that inner monologue out of the way (Oh, who am I kidding, I love angsty inner monologue) we can get into the story. At first I was not planing to continue this, but then a review by one "anagogia" (Who by the way has a bloody brilliant story that you really need to check out) had me excited and ready to continue with this story. Hope you enjoyed it so far, an please, please, please do review!


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Slanted text means it is either a memory, inner thought, or there is emphasis on that word. Also, sorry, for the short chapter, but I decided it was better than nothing. Writers block is annoying.

Disclaimer: I own nothing

0o0

_Pain._

_There was pain everywhere. The damp and dark stone room they were in was lit by naught but a dim, dying yellow light. The pipes above leaked, splashing down onto the back of his neck, leaving what would be reminiscent of tear tracks. _

_He barely even had the energy to groan in agony anymore._

_"You remember sleep, don't you?"_

_Sleep? He could barely wrap his mind around the idea. Heavens, how long had it been since he had last had a good night times wrest, uninterrupted by paranoia or danger. A year? Two years? Sherlock couldn't remember. _

_"What? My wife is sleeping around with the coffin maker? And if I leave right now, I'll catch them at it? I knew it!" _

_Yes. Leave. Go. _

_Honestly, when Mycroft appeared a few moments later, Sherlock couldn't stop the sense of betrayal that rose in his chest and threatened to burst out. If he hadn't been chained up, he would've attacked his brother._

_But no matter. All that really mattered was that now, he was safe._

0o0

"So, mate, how're you doing?"

Sherlock's head tipped slightly to the side at the question, observing him. John had to stop himself from fidgeting under his stare, opting to return Sherlock's with a steady one of his own. Finally, after a minute, Sherlock answered.

"I'm fine. Just a bit...tired, is all."

"Well yes," John said, his eyebrows raised, "That tends to happen when one spends there time solving cases and not sleeping."

Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes for a moment, but just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

Before John could say anything, a small sigh left Sherlock's lips. Collapsing onto the dining table chair, his hands came up to grasp at the roots of his hair, pulling insistently. John just watched him silently from his viewpoint.

"John."

His name came out as a small whisper. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes were on him. John couldn't read whatever it was behind them. Apart of himself wandered if he even wanted to.

"I'm tired, John."

As he said the words, Sherlock's eyes searched his face frantically. For what though, John didn't know.

He rolled his eyes.

"Well of course you are. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why. Though, it's your own bloody fault, what with you always dissapearing off to go solve cases like a junkie in need of a high. It's not healthy, Sherlock."

Sherlock's didn't remove his eyes from Johns face, his scrutiny carrying on for another minute. If he was at all offended by what John had just said, he didn't show it. But even though his expression neither changed nor faltered, John couldn't help but think he had failed some kind of test. It was with great relief on John's part that Sherlock finally released him from his intense stare.

"Yes." Sherlock's said, casting his eyes downwards. "I think I'll do just that."

Sherlock stood, making his way for his room. However, he paused with his hand on his bedroom door handle. His back facing John, he said stiffly;

"One more thing, John. Try not too make these visits too frequent. What with Moriarty returning and MI6 watching my every move, I do not have time too entertain house guests. Goodnight."

Before John could protest against this, Sherlock had escaped to the confines of his room, the door shutting firmly behind him. John shook his head.

_What a little git, _John thought. Of course though, when had Sherlock ever not been a git? It really should've been no surprise.

As John hailed a cab, he couldn't escape the unsettling feeling in his stomach. However, he shook it off. Whatever it was, it probably didn't matter. John had his own life to attend too.

0o0

Sherlock's back slid almost painfully against the door, jostling still healing wounds.

He had tried, in the only was he knew, to get John to understand that he _wasn't _coping well. Not just physically, but mentally as well. He had even repeated himself, twice.

_"I'm fine. Just a bit...tired, is all."_

_"I'm tired, John."_

Both times he had been hoping that John would hear his silent plea, and both times he was disappointed.

Sherlock banged the back of his head against his bedroom door repeatedly, unworried about alerting anyone to his presence. He had heard John leave earlier, and Mrs Hudson was at her sisters place for the weekend.

Why? Why couldn't John see that he, Sherlock, needed him

_He doesn't want to see. Denial can be a very strong barrier, Sherlock. It'll take more than subtext to break through it. Besides, it's not like he needs you anymore. He's got Mary to give him his adrenaline high now. You've been replaced._

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed aloud. "It's better like this anyways. If Moriarty is really back, then he'll be going after the people I care about most. Best to keep them at a distance."

_Good plan, brother mine, _Mycrofts voice echoed through his head, smug_. It would seem that finally, after countless heartbreaks, you are beginning to learn._

_Caring is not an advantage._


End file.
